I really hope that Harry Potter dies on page three of the last book, and the rest of the book is just devoted to whatever mundane things J.K. Rowling happens to see on her way to the publisher. It would pretty much be the greatest prank in the history of literature, and would introduce millions of children worldwide to the oh-so frequent anticlimax. The only thing that might be better than this if it ends off not just on a cliffhanger, but in the middl

I think the most embarrassing part about having poor eyesight but never wearing glasses or contacts is that whenever I see people waving in my direction, I can never tell if they’re actually waving at me. This often leads to two things:

1. I completely ignore somebody who is trying to be friendly, thereby increasing indefinitely the number of people who think I’m an asshole.

2. I give a ridiculous half-wave and stammer to somebody I don’t know, thereby increasing indefinitely the number of people who think I’m retarded.

If you are on The View, you do not get to discuss politics. Hearing Rosie O’Donnell squawk about things she knows absolutely nothing about is about as frustrating as an anorgasmic man on Scripps (semi-inside joke for my feministas). The conversation basically went like this:

Blonde viewlady: I’m not saying killing civilians is right, I just think that the war on terror is connected with the war in Iraq.

Rosie: The war is completely wrong! That is a FACT!

BV: Well, you haven’t established your case.

Rosie: I just said it was a FACT! I WIN! Our troops are dying, and the only reason they are there is because they need an education. That’s the only reason anybody joins the army.

BV: I actually know people personally who joined it because they believed in the mission.

Rosie: FACT! FACT! FACT!

At this point Rosie O’Donnell bit clean through the blonde view-lady’s jugular and dragged her backstage where she devoured her whole with a glass of lemon-lime Shasta and half of a cheesecake. The camera’s obviously couldn’t show this, but I know what’s going down when R O’D gets that gleam in her eye.

Not being 21, I’ve never had any alcohol. But if I were going to recommend a drink for somebody of legal age, it would have to be Peach Schnapps and iced tea. It goes well with a couple of Midol and a set of ovaries.

A while back, I wrote a post entitled “I’m Not Going to Rape You”. It was a (I thought) hilarious little rant on the ridiculousness of some (mostly female) people’s reactions to seeing me on a somewhat isolated street late at night. I was assuring my hypothetical streetwalking buddy that I had no desire to initiate intercourse of any kind, consensual or no. It was my way of saying that my physical features don’t automatically qualify me as a sexual offender.

I was wrong.

I was neglecting my most heinous physical feature: my penis. Where there should have been a vagina, a bounteous life vessel literally gushing with creative energy and love for the universe, I had instead been cursed with a burden, which (though lovely for what it was) was the indelible mark of God’s first draft. As a nonwomyn, I had to come to terms with actively reinforcing a patriarchal society that encourages womyn to be second-class citizens, when in reality, it is the nonwomyns who are inferior.

It was a difficult realization to come to; I fought it at first. I told myself, “It must be possible to be a man (yes, I still used a term as sexist as that) and not be actively oppressive! I respect the rights of women to have an equal societal platform. Surely I would remember oppressing somebody?”

What a silly Negro I was. Since society has long been set up to benefit nonwomyns, every day I choose to spend not cursing at my penis in the mirror is a day where I reap the benefits of a society that both actively and tacitly condones rape. By the very virtue of my phallus, I am just as guilty as the man who actually penetrates the verdant womynly forest nonconsensually. Every time I watch a T.V. program or purchase a product not specifically allowed by feminists, I silently support rape.

Gather ’round kiddies, Papi’s got a tale to tell you. I’m not sure whether I can accurately encapsulate the surrealness of this experience, but you weren’t there, so you can’t tell it any better can you? Let’s get it on.

It’s the end of a relatively normal night, and I’m getting on the subway, ready to mosey on. Now, it’s somewhere in the area of 4 a.m., so I expect the train to take a while. In this interest, I’ve come prepared with a couple newspapers, which I look forward to pretending to read. I forsee no problems finding a comfortable seat, and, unsurprisingly enough, the platform is almost empty.

That “almost” is important.

The only people on the platform were an older mexican gentleman and a blonde about my own age. Nothing to interesting here. Except for the fact that she was half-passed out and he was administering an impromptu mammogram. I wouldn’t have cared if they were filming a sequel to “Debbie Does Dallas” except for two things; one, I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was consensual, and two, I really wanted to sit down and read my papers but didn’t want to interrupt. It was at this point that el rapisto dragged the young lady onto his burly lap, and proceeded to attempt to eat her face. She appeared to be at least a little bit responsive, so I came to the conclusion that they had some previous sexual relationship, and were so enflamed with desire that my presence (and the click click of my camera phone) didn’t bug them. I also came to the conclusion that they were so far gone that they wouldn’t care whether I was standing or sitting, so I discretely took the seat farthest from the young lustbirds, and settled into the paper.

Barely was I into article one, when the blonde woke up. Now I’ve never woken up to find myself hooking up with a 50 year old mexican on a subway platform (well, not in years) but her reaction was pretty reasonable. She tried to put herself back together while avoiding his wanton, raw, sexuality. I couldn’t help imagine her as a cat and him as a cartoon skunk. I thought, “well that was certainly weird” and looked back at the article, something about Elliot Gould.

“Should, shoudlb you hooshk this back up for me please?”

Blondie had sidled up to me and was asking me, in her very special way, to reclasp her bra. I obliged, and went back, once again, to Mr. Gould.

“I’m ssho sorry.”

I assured her it was more than ok. I was a bit curious as to why she had asked me to clasp her bra rather than doing it herself or asking her friend, but I merely assumed that she somehow knew my reputation as someone around whom bras never come off, and was merely using my greatest talent (making sure girls’ bras stay on) to her own selfish ends. Whatever.

“I’ve never met that guy ever before.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this. Granted, I haven’t done any statistically significant research, but something tells me that 20 year olds don’t exactly troll subways looking for unsuspecting middle aged men to accost. I stammered out the somewhat obvious question.

“So…what…why…who…what the fuck is going on?”

“I thought he was someone else I thought he was my boss I didn’t know here I was i’ve neverseen that guy if this is sober this is me.”

On that last point she made a hand gesture, the sober hand quivering above the one that indicated her current mindset. I was curious as to what she thought was happening, but concerned that I would NEVER have a chance to examine the career path of the man who would eventually father Ross and Monica Geller, went back to my paper.

She wasn’t certain I understood, and insisted on drawing me a picture of her drunkenness on my paper, a beautiful one that featured several lines and poorly drawn circles. I assured her once again that I understood.

“I’m shoo sorry!. You saved me! you shaved my life. You’re amazing”

At this point I became interested. Elliot Gould be damned, it had been literally hours since I’d been told how amazing I was and I was all ears. Unfortunately, at this point, two young ladies came onto the platform at this point, and Blondie (whose name, I later found out was Lila), took the chance to tell them of the crazy happenings. She did mention my heroics, but they were unimpressed.

At this point, the train came, and we all got on together. All, that is, except for amorous gentleman. Now, there’s only one train that goes through this station, and there are no carnival rides or smoothie vendors, so I have no idea what he was doing there if not waiting for the train. Perhaps he was waiting for another 20 year old blonde. Maybe he thought he was somewhere else. Maybe he just really liked train platforms. Whatever the case, he was still there when I left.

My very favorite thing about Lila was the religious tattoos she had on her feet, reading, “Strength in Jesus”, and “Walk with God” (or somethign equally inspiring.) It really gives me a newfound respect for Christianity. And blondes. And Mexicans.

Equal power between the sexes is a sham. Oh sure, men might get better jobs and get paid more, but that means quite little when you realize that they only go to those jobs and make that money to impress women. Unless they’re gay, in which case they have to get good jobs to combat the ever-rising costs of appletinis and Astroglide. By now, obviously, that observation is a bit trite, and I don’t make it to send you into little convulsions of laughter, but rather as a segue to helping the ladies harness that power.

I was under the impression that it was easy for girls to get guys, at least in a physical capacity. I assumed the process went something along the lines of letting it be known that you in fact, were possessed of a vagina, and that the guys then flocked like oh so many seagulls(because it’s a well-known fact that seagulls LOVE vagina). I knew that it was a little bit harder to actually get a relationship, especially at college age, but I assumed that was what fake pregnancies were for. Apparently, however, some girls don’t know how to get guys into bed short of shameless desperation. Lucky for them, I’m here to help. Here are a couple of tried and true tricks that will let you get all you want without crying shamefully in the mirror the next morning (because seriously, I can hear you, and it’s freaking me out a little bit):

The ‘Ol Movie Trick: 75% of the battle is getting into position for a tactical strike. The other 25% is using awkward metaphors and random statistics. Every guy worth his salt (and who isn’t worth their weight in salt these days?) knows that the offer to watch a movie is helpful trick. First and foremost, it can help get the two of you alone, which can be otherwise a little sticky. Secondly, it can help get the lighting down to a point where it’s easy to ignore each other’s imperfections. Finally, especially if the movie was well-chosen, it means that there’s no burden of conversation until you actually have something witty to say.

Now, to my girlies, you can use this trick too, and not be slutty! If you invite a guy back for a movie, he’s going to see through you. But if you mention a couple of movies you like throughout the course of the night (bonus points if you already know he has them), eventually he’ll get the idea. Then, you can seal the deal with an oh-so subtle, “I don’t even really feel like being out tonight, but my friends dragged me.” If he takes the hint and invites you back for a movie, you’re golden. If not, well then you haven’t lost anything because you haven’t really put yourself on the line. Oh, and you’re probably unattractive. Uh, work on that.

The “Me, Sexy”?: This trick is particularly for those girls who complain that guys only think of them as friends no matter what they do: “I’ve tried playing Warcraft, I joined the football team, I even tried wearing nothing but flannel shirts and jeans, but no matter what I do, he still thinks of me as only a friend!! Help!!”. Being friends with guys is a great thing, but every once in a while you have to remind them that you’re still a girl, at least if you want them to want to sleep with you. There are a couple very easy ways of doing this. One is to invest in a modest-yet revealing bathrobe, and wear it so it accents your best features. Got massive cottage-cheese thighs? Wear a long one that shows a little cleavage instead. Got the chest of a fourteen year old corpse? Try a short robe that shows off those lovely legs. Generally fat and unattractive? Try a burquua.

Now, it might make you uncomfortable to wear this robe everywhere. And more importantly, it would make me uncomfortable. All you have to do is wear it at the opportune time. Say, for example, a bunch of your guy friends are picking you up from your room for a rousing game of Dance Dance Revolution. Try opening the door wearing the robe, because you “didn’t realize they were going to be here so soon”. At that point you can immediately change into your coveralls and still have a decent chance of being masturbatory fodder for at least one of them. It only take a brief moment to change your image into something sexy, at which point you can let their imagination do the rest.

The “Long Day” Massage: This one is admittedly a little over the top, but effective nonetheless. As you might have expected, at some point you complain of tenseness in your back and wait for the inevitable massage offer. The key to this trick is how you accept or decline the offer. If the offer comes from somebody from whom you do not want a massage, all you have to do is complain of ticklishness. If it comes from that strapping young gentleman with whom you do want to engage in heavy petting, look surprised, as if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind, and acquiesce somewhat reluctantly, as not to appear immodest: “Oh, really? A massage? Well, I guess I could really use one. Why not?”

During the massage, make pseudo-sexual noises and/or faces, while looking embarrassed. Nobody’s asking to be Jenna Jameson, but even catching your breath once or twice will associate the massage with sex in the guy’s mind, and your job is essentially done.

The Body Control: This one is probably the simplest but requires the most commitment. Essentially, it requires participating in an activity that has a secondary association with sex. Try taking Pilates, or a dancing or yoga class. For best results, I suggest a “how to be good at sex” class. The only professor that teaches it is on sabbatical, but I’d be more than happy to meet you and go over the notes from last semester. If, you, know, you wanted to.

Now, all of the above are for that young woman who wishes to engage in some sort of physical relations with the gentleman. But what of those who wish for nothing more than a walk in the park filled with hand-holding and shy smiles? And dating, and romance? Stop being such a prude. If you don’t have sex with any guy who asks, none of them are going to like you, and you’re going to be ostracized. What if your mom were as prudish as you? You wouldn’t even be here.

On a more serious note, if you want to date a guy, just date him. It’s a little ridiculous to wait for him to woo you with flowers and romance, especially in college, but there are plenty of interesting things happening all the time. It needn’t be dinner and a movie, it could be nothing more than bored people going for a milkshake. Or to a play that one of your friends is in. Or to an improv show. Go out with a guy a couple of times, and if you should actually be dating seriously, it will eventually will come up. If there isn’t a spark, you shouldn’t be romantically involved, but at least you now have a friend who you can stand to be around in a one-on-one context.

This article was really funny, but was hopefully at least a little bit helpful to someone. Tune in next time for more pointless things!

This one is still a little stubby, because I’m having trouble thinking of present writers that are well-known enough to be recognizable by both of my readers. Still, enjoy,

The Onion

Area Muffin Slightly Overcooked

Area blueberry muffin came back having been slightly overcooked, sources reported last Tuesday. Onlookers said the renegade muffin defied both its cookers and logic when it became slightly blackened before the “muffin” setting on the toaster had finished it’s cooking. Said witness Evan Roberts, “There must have been some foul play involved – a muffin just doesn’t overcook out of the blue.” After a pause, he continued, “berry.” Investigators have yet to determine the cause of the overcooking and are anxiously pursuing leads.